The tailor jumped up and cradled the earl, gently easing him back into the soft cushions. “Paul, you are not strong enough to do this. Be sensible! Trust in St. Clair’s shooting arm now. I looked into him, you know, per your uncle’s instruction. A very interesting man. A man of fierce courage and conviction. He holds many prizes in shooting competitions.”
“Does he?” Paul relaxed slightly, trying to put his trust in a man he knew would happily take Elizabeth’s hand in marriage if she would have him. A rival. And yet—a friend. And perhaps even a relative. “What did you discover about his family? Anything?”
Returning to his sewing, the tailor adjusted his spectacles, his large head tilting to catch the best light. “Well, I can tell you that he was adopted. Did you know that? I do not think even he knows it. A couple claiming to be his aunt and uncle raised him, but they are no relation to our Mr. St. Clair. He was taken in by them when he was but seven, after his parents were killed in a railway accident, or so the story was told to him. Not quite true, though. I found his parents’ records—or at least one for certain, but I am on the trail of the second.”
“You are one clever old man,” Paul said, his blue eyes lighting up. Even though he might not be involved in the adventure, he could use this time to learn more about their situation, and that may yet keep them alive. “Tell me more.”
The old tailor’s eyes were sharp, and he kept keen watch on the earl as they talked, making sure he did not make another foolish attempt to stand. “If you remain quiet as you have been told, then I shall share it. Only then.”
“You may rely upon my submission,” Paul said, a genuine smile creeping across his lean face. “Go on.”
“Well, this is what I discovered originally, and it set me into motion to learn more. Since then, I have discovered many layers to peel back. I found a document that the Liverpool registry office claimed was a copy of a birth certificate issued for one Charles Arthur St. Clair, but there was no father listed, and this copy did not have the right look, you know? Here is the second layer of this interesting onion puzzle. It seems that the mother, a woman listed on this purported copy as Angelina McKay was actually not married, and the child never knew his true father. But something about this story did not feel right either, you know? So I did a little more digging, unpeeling more of that interesting little onion, and I uncovered an old set of letters and legal documents. It is good that the duke commissioned me with this task long ago, just after our policeman friend first entered our duchess’s life, is it not? I have spent many years, traveled countless miles, and expended much money—well, the duke’s money, of course—in finding out his true past.”
Paul closed his eyes, trying to connect the various names in his remarkable memory. “Angelina McKay? I have cousins named McKey, sometimes spelt McKay,” he said, impatient to see where this tale was headed.
“I shall get to that. Let me tell my story in my own time,” the tailor continued calmly, threading the needle again. “So, last year, I traveled to Liverpool where this train accident that orphaned young Charles took place, and there I find a woman who knew the mother. An old friend, she said. She kept letters, which the mother of Charles the orphan, had given into her care. ‘Do not let anyone take these unless they can prove they are from me,’ she had said to her friend, and she gave this friend a symbol which would provide proof of any messenger who might come to take it. It is this.”
The tailor leaned forward and wrote in pantomime on the table between them, as if tracing a shape, forming a capital P crossed by an S and bounded by a circle.
“That cannot be!” Paul insisted, sitting up once again. The tailor pushed him back into the cushions, cautioning him that he would call for Baxter if the earl did not comply. After much persuasion, Aubrey obeyed, but colour had risen to his face, and he seemed wide awake now. “But that is our symbol! Our secret sign! Did you see it with your own eyes?”
“I did, in fact, see the original, and it is the same. Also a fact: I have this box of letters and other papers in my luggage, which I shall not fetch for you now. I will agree to bring it to you only after you have rested today. Too much excitement may cause that wound to re-open, and that will do nothing for our dear one.”
“The woman gave you these letters then?”
“She did, when I showed her my own symbol upon the cards we in the circle use to prove trust. Now, promise you will behave, and I shall tell you more. Otherwise, I shall finish my sewing upstairs.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be good,” he assured the tailor. “But, Martin, how can you ask it of me, when you know what this means?”
“It may mean nothing; it may mean everything. How can we know until we pursue it?”
The earl could not stop thinking. “The mother—St. Clair’s mother. Where was her home? Did you learn anything more about the father?”
The tailor calmly clipped at a small black thread with a tiny pair of scissors. “Yes. But more of that in a moment. I had reason to suspect that the mother arrived in Liverpool on a ship. That much the woman was sure of, but the origin of that ship and its name, she was not so sure of. She did think it had a Scottish sounding name, though. So, I did what you would have done; I traveled to the docks and asked for the names of all ships that had docked there during the three years before this alleged ‘train accident’. I will tell you all about that later, but for now, the ship is more important. There were many, and I wrote down all that had Scottish sounding names. I took her that list, which contained nearly fifty names. She is a woman of good character, I think, but her eyes are not so good, so I read them out to her, and she stopped me when I said The MacAlister. Well, back I went to the docks and asked to see the ship’s registry for all passengers who may have sailed on her from any ports in Scotland to Liverpool. It took many hours of tedious work and the odd financial inducement, but do you know I found the name of a woman very close to the one listed on the birth certificate? A female passenger with a young son. Not Angelina McKay at all, but Angela Sinclair. And her name in full was listed as Angela Marie Stuart Sinclair.”
Paul nearly leapt to his feet, but a warning glare from the tailor kept him still. “She was my mother’s sister! Aunt Angela! Is it possible—could Charles be my cousin in truth?”
“We must not jump to any answers before we know all the questions, my friend. You taught me that many years ago, as did your wonderful father, may he rest in peace. So, because I knew you would make that connexion—and that you would be so quick to jump to those conclusions, I traveled to Glasgow and found a small fishing village called Crovie. I believe you know it.”
“I should. It’s only thirty miles from Castle Drummond. Angela sailed from there?”
“Yes, she did, according to the ship’s records. She may have altered her name in an attempt to hide, or perhaps someone else altered it to obscure our detective’s true past. I tried to trace anyone named Angelina McKay—to find family or friends in the village, but I found doors slammed in my face, if you can believe it. Me! I’m such a nice fellow.”
“You are that, but those villagers won’t talk to outsiders. My uncle could get the story. We’ll go there once we leave here.”
“I’d thought as much, which is why I packed my best woolens. And if you’ve found my information helpful, then perhaps your lordship might find a few extra pounds to supply more of those fine Scottish tartans once we’re there?”
Paul suddenly felt energized. “My friend, I shall buy you a trainload of tartan wools if you want them! Finally, a plan…but, wait a minute. Wait. Kepelheim, if we have learnt this, then who else might have done so?”
“Now that is the right question, my lord earl. The right one at last, which tells me your head is clearing. Good! And is it mere coincidence that our paths have so crossed with St. Clair, if all is as we think it may be? Divine assistance is not too much to believe in, but there is also the possibility that our enemy has
unseen friends, who have been manipulating events for a very long time.”
Paul slapped his forehead suddenly, the sharp crack echoing along the walls and windows of the large room. “That is why!” he cried out. “The one thing I could never reason out was why Trent drove Patricia’s body all the way into East London, when he could have just left her in the tunnels where Elizabeth has always insisted the murder took place. Oh, when I think of the questions the police and even we put to her over and over again about that night, and how she stalwartly insisted that Trent had killed her mother beneath the grounds of Branham, and then taken them both in a wagon, all the way into London. That never made sense to me until now!”
“I do not follow,” Kepelheim complained.
“No? Consider this. William left Patricia in the H-Division district with a singular purpose. Think about it, Martin. How better to enlist an unknown policeman into the battle than to lay a beautiful and mysterious murder victim on a well-lit street like Commercial? But more to the point, it may explain why the fiend left Elizabeth there, too. And why Trent appeared in such a merciless attitude the following day. What gallant police officer would not champion a crying child—especially an officer who has recently lost his own child and is known to have a soft and pliant heart? We’ve looked at this all wrong from the beginning. We should—I should have believed Elizabeth, and perhaps then we might have uncovered the truth sooner. St. Clair must be told all, Martin. As soon as he returns.”
“I agree,” the tailor said just as the doors opened to reveal Baxter’s looming presence.
“You have a message, Lord Aubrey. I have asked the gentleman who delivered it to wait, as he claims to be known to you. Shall I send him in whilst you read?”
Paul took the message. It was another coded telegram; this one from his uncle. “Yes!” Aubrey said, realising the contents. “Tell him to come in at once!”
The butler retreated for a few moments and then returned, accompanied by a squat man with mutton chop sideburns and a dark blue overcoat. “Detective Inspector Reid of Scotland Yard, sir,” the butler announced and left the trio alone.
“Mr. Reid, sir! Edmund! Welcome, and please come in. My uncle has sent you? Please, do sit, my friend. Sit!” The earl pushed himself up against the cushions as much as he dared now, allowing Kepelheim to prop up his head.
“Lord Aubrey, I am honoured to be on errand from your esteemed uncle. Last night, he received disturbing news of your rail journey by way of an urgent telegram sent by my colleague Charles St. Clair, and the duke bade me ascertain that you and your company were safe, and that you, sir, are well. He had been told you were injured, and I see it is so. Is there any way I may assist you? I have brought a certain item in my wagon that may provide an exit in an emergency.”
Paul glanced at the tailor, clearly not following this last. “Unless you can fly us out of here on the wings of a hawk, I cannot think of any help you might bring us, save your marksmanship, Mr. Reid.”
Reid smiled. “That sir, is just what I have brought you. Wings.”
CHAPTER Thirteen
As they descended slowly and carefully into darkness, Charles kept Elizabeth close to his side, the lantern held high. Torches had once lined the ancient stone steps, though most of their mountings had long since given way as the mortar crumbled. He could still make out the black smoke stains that they’d caused, after many years of use.
“Watch out for rats,” he warned her, but she made no sound, for the underground passages were familiar territory to Elizabeth, and she knew just where she was headed.
“To the left once we reach the bottom. The ceiling lowers, so mind your head. I know that William sometimes had to stoop, as did his friends.”
“His friends?” he asked, crouching down to clear his tall head as they passed beneath an arched doorway.
Once through, she spread her hands and said, “Here it is.”
The archway opened onto an enormous cavern that soared high overhead. They had descended in darkness, down over two hundred, treacherously worn, carved steps in a winding pattern, so it was likely that the abbey, which had been built on an earthen mound stood directly over them.
“How is this possible?” he marveled. “It must be fifty feet high!”
“At least,” she said. “If we turn to the right, past that large carved column, we would reach Branham, going beneath the old hall, but that route is dangerous and many passageways are low or collapsing. I learnt later—on that awful night—that there is another way, discovered by William, but I only traveled it once, so I would not attempt to retrace it now. As a child, I had no trouble clearing the lower areas, but Paul nearly got stuck once when I took him through after my mother married William.”
“He’s been through them then?”
“Only parts. Only once. Paul had come to visit at Easter, the year after Mother married William. He’d asked permission to take me with him to Scotland, but William refused. So Paul remained here for three weeks—no doubt a torment to Trent!—and he spent all that time with me, a silly little girl who wanted to ride ponies and play at tea. But whenever I knew no one overheard us, I told him all I had discovered whilst following William—well, all I’d discovered up to that time. I found this place only after Paul left. There, in the centre of this main room, you see evidence of many large fires. Three times, I watched through a tiny crack beyond that wall there, and what I saw terrified and sickened me.”
He held her close as they moved forward, his mind suddenly remembering the Webley Bulldog nestled inside the holster. “Would you hold the lantern for a moment?” he asked her, removing the weapon and making certain the double-action revolver’s cylinder was filled. “I’ll not let anyone harm you, Beth,” he vowed as he snapped the gleaming chamber back into its housing.
“I have no fear when you are near me, Charles. I know that nothing can reach me if it does not get past you. Somehow, I’ve known it since first we met. From that moment when I first saw your wonderful eyes, my Captain.”
She moved forward, the lamp held as high as she could manage it, her steps echoing sharply on the cool stone floor and high rock walls as she walked. “But look now, Superintendent. Use your great detective skills and imagine this place ten years ago. See what lies beneath our feet. There, in the space near those old coals, you will see her blood mixed with that of many others. It is still there, like a great, crimson lake of grief!”
She moved toward the centre, holding the lamp close to the ground so he could see, and he gasped. The entire cavern floor looked as if it had been painted red with blood!
“William murdered your mother—here?”
She nodded. “They had been arguing much of the evening, and he actually began it. It was as if he wanted an excuse to do it—to bring her here—to hurt her; kill her. It was after supper. I had gone up to bed, and my nanny had just begun laying out my bed clothes, when I heard them shouting. She sounded terrified, and it was not the first time. Mother threatened to leave him, to divorce him, but he laughed. Nanny thought somehow that I could not discern the words’ true meaning, but I did.
“I waited until she began running my bath, and then I fled, rushing down the steps toward my mother’s apartment, but not finding them there, I ran back again to his. As I told you last night, Trent had chosen his rooms because there is a passage to the tunnels that connects there. I had seen him use it many times, though he knew it not. As I opened the door to Trent’s drawing room, I could see him wrenching my mother’s arms so hard that she fell at his feet. I nearly rushed in to stop it, and I wish I had, but I’m not sure it would have ended any differently. William’s apartment not only connected to the tunnels, it was also far from any servant’s rooms. Only my nursery, which was directly overhead, lay near enough for anyone to hear, and he clearly wanted me to hear it.”
“Wait, Beth. I’m confused. Mr. Baxter told me that your stepfather’s apa
rtment was in the east wing, but your nursery is in the north wing. How could you possibly have overheard an argument so far from there?” he asked, but she grew pale, clearly upset.
“You’re right. Oh, Charles, you’re right! My nursery is—was in the north wing, but...” She paused, her eyes searching the ground as if somehow the truth might be found there. “Yet, I know my memory is correct. That is what happened. I know it is. You do believe me, don’t you?”
He kissed her hand. “Yes, darling, I believe you, but perhaps the horror of it somehow mixed up some of the details. Forgive me.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s possible. It’s taken me some years to remember much of it, perhaps I’ll eventually recall more that explains the discrepancy, but I am sure what I’ve told you is right.”
She was upset, and he regretted bringing it up at all. “Don’t think on it now, Beth. You say William intentionally created this raucous argument for you to overhear it. Why? Why would he do that?” he asked. “I don’t understand his madness.”
She took a moment to reply, and he noticed her hands had begun to shake, so he took the lantern from her. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I think I begin to understand why he wanted me to witness his deed—why he involved me at all,” she confessed. “Again, I cannot tell you more—and I am sorry to keep saying that, but I will tell you what happened as best I can recall it. I watched from the doorway, fearing he would see me, and wondering if I should go fetch Baxter or someone else to help. I knew, though, that the servants had been warned by Trent—many times—never to interfere or they would lose their place, so I kept my silence for fear of incurring William’s wrath upon them. Then he opened the great fireplace in his sitting room; it is designed to turn. I’ll show it to you when we get back to Branham.”
He hesitated to speak, but cleared his throat and confessed. “I hadn’t said anything to you, Beth, but Kepelheim and I explored that floor of the east wing this morning, and Trent’s apartment is locked. All the other doors opened, but not his. Might your grandfather have rekeyed it?”
Blood Lies Page 24
